


The Entire History of Human Desire

by grumpysimon



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Addiction, Brendon's working as a bartender and also playing music and living off tips tbh, Dominant!Ryan, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Overcoming Internalized Homophobia, Priest!AU, Smoking, bottom!Brendon, don't worry im obligated 2 add a cameo of pete wentz so just u wait, listen that's an important tag, long fic, overcoming abuse, priest!Ryan, road trip!au, switch!ryan, there's a lot of church sex don't y'all fret
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-13 21:50:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpysimon/pseuds/grumpysimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" And I used to love Him, you know. I believed every word I heard at Sunday school but it's passed onto you, these beliefs, and either you carry them with you until death or they eat you alive. And my parents are So Proud, of You, Brendon. Following in Your Father's Footsteps, I Knew You Always Would.<br/>And this complex-- pleasing my parents at 24 the same way I was 12 years ago, addicted to the high of "we're proud of you son," why can't I break it? "<br/>Ryan has hidden a beast inside of him since he was young, following his parent's wishes for him to follow in his father's footsteps and become a preacher at their beloved church. For a long while, this works, him confusing his dreams with others-- until he reaches a breaking point, everything bottled up inside and fighting to spill out. He lives this way for a long time, waiting for something to push him far enough until the dam breaks down and everything is released. And this turns out to be a certain boy with messy hair and clothes barely fitting, crunching leaves under his boots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I was all talk about the Priest!AU for a while, but here it finally is! Chapter 1 & the Prologue, so I hope y'all enjoy it! As always, comments, kudos, and all other feedback is amazing amazing amazing. (Especially comments, because this is my first published Ryden fic!!!) Thank you so much!  
> Hope you enjoy, XOXO  
> KC

(Prologue) 

Somedays I can almost make myself believe what I’m saying. I can almost listen to the words and believe the messages behind them. But I can never fill those words with purpose like they're meant to be. To me they’re always empty.  
  
And the worst thing is they don’t know I’m doing this to them. They are listening to things they understand but I don’t. They are laughing at jokes I don’t find funny. They are saying hallelujah to words that don’t deserve their hallelujahs. They hang on to every word. I don't believe a single one.  
  
Looking out upon all those faces smiling so brightly, folks in their finest clothes to hear what I have to say, what "God" is speaking through me. It kills me. They have hope in a man with no belief, no world around him to hold onto. Nothing but a microphone for God himself to speak in, that's me. And they say-- Ryan, Ryan, today's message was great. Susanne was really touched by it. Oh, and how is Susanne doing? She's doing great. Lost a lot of weight, you know. Good, good to hear! Well I hope you have a lovely week. See you next Sunday.  
  
And none of it's true. I'm speaking formalities with folks whose names I don't remember, faces blending together, mouths opened to sing the hymns.  
And I used to love Him, you know. I believed every word I heard at Sunday school but it's passed onto you, these beliefs, and either you carry them with you until death or they eat you alive. And my parents are So Proud, of You, Ryan. Following in Your Father's Footsteps, I Knew You Always Would.  
  
And this complex-- pleasing my parents at 24 the same way I was 12 years ago, addicted to the high of "we're proud of you son," why can't I break it?  
Dad's in the hospital. Dad's in the hospital and I'm 24 and I've spent the first 22 years of my life pleasing the old man, almost always happy with it-- happy with playing the North Star in the Christmas play, happy with working hard in school & for Christ. I thought I was doing something good, I was happy, and I was stuck in an endless loop. And it's breaking.  
  
Dad's gonna die and I don't even know who I am. Dad's gonna die thinking I'm gonna settle down, keep preaching, have kids, baptize them in front of the churchgoers. But something stops me, it halts me, like there's a little beast inside of me, fighting for rebellion. And it's new. So new.  
  
Am I missing something? Am I twenty four and suddenly realizing I'm living on my father's dream?  
  


************************************************

It’s not a large church, but on these Sundays it’s packed full with families waiting to hear words to get them through the next week, opening bibles on their smartphones or pulling them from the pocket in front of them. Oh, the things that makes them raise their hands up and sermons that bring tears to their eyes, the hymns they sway along to. They eat it up.

Sunshine pours through the stained glass. Mother Mary along the Apostles and all my childhood companions. It's beautiful, with the faint sun illuminating every last particle of dust there is to see.

The last people rush in, hoping they’re not too late to grab a seat, waving hands at their friends, neighbours, in solemn greeting. I clear my throat.  
“Morning, old friends and newcomers." I say, smiling. "It's just starting to get cold out there, and I hope you all have had a lovely morning so far. Now, since I'm sure you all have your errands to run and playdates to tend to--" I break for the laugh. "I'll get to it. Open up your Bibles--" and from there it's not introductions, it's not friendliness I can spare. It's the facade again. And I watch my mother's face from the back, watch her smile as I talk, as my voice strains to speak my truths, as I bring out the choir to sing the first and last hymns.

Today's is about recovering from loss with the power of Christ. But I become the microphone again, speaking from the notes in front of me, from the mirror words. I feel like I've poured poison into the water, and watched them drink it.

I have told them words I struggle to believe. My father is going to die, maybe before winter finally comes, and Christ is not going to be there. No god, no angels, and no saviour is going to pick me up from the hospital floor when the monitor goes silent.

My mother will shed her tears, and she will speak at the funeral, and she will have courtesy with all of it, hugs and kisses to Aunt Joanne because she flew all the way out here. And I will be the trophy son, the prize of it all, and they will say Your Father Raised You Well. Everyone will say those things to Ryan Ross the Good Son, and they will come on Sunday to listen to me before they go back home.

But with the truth comes that I used to confide in my mother, and I used to trust that woman, and she was very brave and beautiful to me. With that I confided in my mother that I liked the boy who had moved in a few doors down, I liked his glasses and I thought he was attractive, just like Mom thought about Dad, yeah? And I asked her if God would help me befriend this boy, because I thought he was nice and looked nice, too.

Mother dear covered her mouth and walked away, shedding tears unlike the ones she will shed when my dad dies. Returning with father at her side, they gave me a talk. They told me that Satan was inside me, and that I needed to look to Jesus for help. They left a bible at the foot of my bed and said if it would help, they would take my video game privileges away for a week.

And of course I looked to Christ for help. I asked him to repel Satan. I'm not sure if Jesus did. Twenty four, and I'm starting to wonder.

(Chapter One) 

I'm split into two halves; two versions of Ryan. Ryan one wants to run, to destroy, to create a self defined life. Ryan two obeys. He listens and nods and pulls his collars up high. That version of Ryan is a follower. But he is self destructive.  
  
Ryan two is a machine creaking and combusting from the inside. I'm dying here, because all these people think they're listening. But they are listening to a fabrication of words, they are seeing smiles.  
  
My mother has forgotten those many years ago, I can seen it as I preach about Sodomy and homosexuality, teaching, sharing.  
"Christ is always there, and he is waiting, fighting for you. Brothers and sisters: Christ wants you to make the holy decision."  
  
Her memory chose to forget. My memory chose to build, to compact until explosion. And the pressure is building in my brain and I have no idea what will come when the levee finally breaks when the bottled up parts of me spill all out for the congregation to see. Ryan the Good Son, and this is what we found inside of him when he finally broke. We found golden things and we found apologies and we found filthy things, beasts made of gold apologizing for what they created. Oh, what we found.  
  
If someone was watching this all happen, documenting me swelling and combusting from the inside, they would find me fascinating. I am neurotic, pacing like a caged animal and baring my teeth at those who hope to find me as a familiar pet. The cat who used to walk the streets at night, friendly and meowing for recognition and a hand to pet me, now rabid and wild. And this is just the overture to the grand finale of everything breaking.  
  
"Listen to me, folks, God can tame any beast, from the ones you fight internally to the ones you pass everyday on the streets."  
  
Everyone thought God had tamed me, even myself. Maybe if I clasp my hands together and beg for a change just one more time--  
"You must just ask him first. First you must always pray."  
  
I am all clasped hands and hallelujiah's, but God has yet to shine his light on me.  
"Christ will always listen. He will never leave you alone."  
A woman raises up her hands to accept what God is giving to her this Sunday morning.  
"Do you say amen to that?"  
"Amen!"  
"He will carry you, and never falter in his love, as long as you trust and believe?"  
"Amen!"  
"And tame any beast, any creature, inside and out?"  
"Amen!"  
Then I can leave. I leave them hanging by a thread, a thread I can twist and swing and even snap: but I never will. The choir goes into their last song, and today I don't stay to sing with them.  
  
Stained glass and angels will be here without me. These people can finish their hymns and eat the post service donuts while I fall apart away from here. My chest is heaving with breaths I cannot seem to complete.  
  
Breathe, Ryan. Breathe.  
  
The beast is in my passenger seat, and it's not the Devil. It's just a reflection. I'd rather stare into the barrel of a gun than a camera, because the person I'd see in those photos is not me. He is Ryan two, and he has an all black suit and dress shoes and a white collar and a devotion, shown here by his cross chain.  
  
Ryan two is going to die soon, and all those clothes and all his bibles and false words about Christ are going to die with him. And I'm praying with all the strength that I have left that he doesn't take me with him.  
  


************************************************

I start the car, hands trembling, and it wheezes-- it's not far from going caput on me. There's a package of cigarettes underneath my seat, because only angels know what would happen if someone found them. They don't want to see their hero become human, because I am God's loudspeaker. Maybe his is broken, maybe that's why they think he chooses people like me to speak his gospel. Maybe God needs to get a better repairman, because fixing his loudspeaker has gotten to be a slow job.

And I'm sick of speaking for the man in the white robes and all his friends with golden halos.

The flame is feeble but it's enough to light the cigarette and I think to myself: this will kill me.  
"Let's see what will kill me first, the cigarettes or the weight of God's ass on my shoulders."  
I'm only talking to myself, but but it helps me return to my physical form. Not that I went anywhere holy during the time I wasn't in it, mostly I dug myself into the dirt. Checking out the real estate for an early grave. Turns out there’s no God, underneath the dirt. I’ve been learning that a lot lately.

Then who would preach at my funeral? I can't die. This town needs me, that church has no presence on it's own. It’s just an empty building full of light and pews. It’s a machine without electricity. The choir would have no timing to sing their hymns, the amen’s would be silence.

And God, my parents. I don’t know if they’d cry for me, but I know they’d cry for my image. They’d cry for their image. Candlelight vigils and they’re remembered as the ones with the dead son. Didn’t you hear, he killed himself? I heard he was _and then the voice lowers_ gay.. No way! _I heard he hid it until he lost it._ Perrie, you’re such a gossip. So how are the kids lately?

I can’t become a newspaper headline, because if I died, they’d be mourning God’s microphone and not a human being, not someone who smoked and had to hide it or whose hands shook at the sight of the crowd watching him. Who looked away and punished himself when he found the boy across the room cute.

I push my hair out of my eyes. This cigarette isn’t taking me anywhere holy, either.

********************************************************* 

I feel sick. My body feels light and it’s almost like I can look down and see my shoes twenty feet below me, the brand new phenomenon. Floating Boy, fifteen feet up in the air! Cannot find a way to return down to his soles no matter how hard he tries. Will someone throw a rope up to him, please? He’s getting tired up there, he needs a cigarette and a drink of water.

I can look in the mirror, right? And I see high collared saviour. Whose saviour am I? Not my own, but there are pews full of people and they think they know me. I’m not married, I’m twenty-four, I wear glasses because I can’t see farther than a couple feet or read for shit. I’m devoted to Christ, and I’m ready to share his word.

I’m not married, but I don’t want to be. Marriage is a holy union between one man and one woman. I’m twenty four but all the days behind now do not stand out, to me they are all gray copies tinged memory. In memoriam of the person I used to be. I’m gay, or something like that. Women are beautiful but I’d rather them not return my feelings. I put my socks on in the morning just like everyone else, I drink my coffee just like everyone else, I donate to charity and I sleep with two pillows and I pay no mind to the world around me, most of the time. My father is dying and to me this seems like nothing I could ever relate to. Stop dying, old man. Get back on your feet, and dance a little more for the world’s enjoyment. Hell knows that you’ve done that before.

It’s what he would say to me, if I was in his place and he was in mine. Get back up and preach, son. Go the church and pray for health.

And I’m sure he means his best. I can’t condemn someone who isn’t my generation. He is the person he is and I have to love him for that, no matter what the monitor says about his health or what his mouth says about me.

I realize my hands are deathly white on the steering wheel, and I know it’s time to go someplace where no one is looking for me. Time to break some vows, do something stupid, fuck my life up just a little bit more to see how far I can push my patience. They love me either way, I’m sure.

My god, I’m fucking angry. And lonely.

I pull into the parking space. It’s the park where only stoned teenagers and dog-walkers go, overgrown with weeds and covered so deeply in leaves. I change into a worn pair of jeans and t-shirt in the back, not minding the fact I’ll be wrinkled for the week. I’m helping the boy scouts this week, and there’s a mission trip I won’t be attending. There’s a dog shelter event coming up, too. I’ll be needing it again soon.

I grab the cigarettes, planning to fade through another pack. I’m a chimney by this point, and all the anti-smoking lectures from high school are starting to fade into some kind of background decoration, almost a motivation.

There’s half a bottle of Jack Daniel’s hidden under a couple of my “spare jackets for the homeless” stack. How good samaritan of me.

Leaves crunch under my boots as I make my way through the tall grasses and weeds, the oaks and cotton trees filling out the sky. _Who am I? What have I done?_  
Winter is on it’s way, and I don’t think it will be friendly this year. It’s my favourite season, because it’s the only time of the year I can hole up and hide properly. And no one has to force me out of the apartment-- I can wrap myself up in the duvet and eat nothing but soup and lose my loneliness in the snowflakes.

There’s no one here but a few teenagers passing the joint. They look at me in fear, expecting me to shout or to threaten, but I wave them off. I wish I was free enough to wear converse and smoke and not give a fuck.

Leaves coat the banks of the creek, and I watch it flow beneath my feet, the leaves slick with rains and frosts. Soon I won’t be able to escape here, but I can hide in the closets, underneath my bed, in the drawers, so no one can find me. This is the worst year yet, and I keep pushing past the feeling that tells me that maybe it’s the end. Fuck it is, I’ve got more years to go past this. I take a swig of the whisky and the burn is enough to settle my hands that’ve been shaking since I left the service.  
Today we talked about beasts and it resonates with me.

Maybe they were thinking of their alcohol problem or their impulsive spending or the fact they run from healthy relationships, or the fact they can’t get in touch with their kids. All those worries and they learned how to banish them, or at least put them off for long enough. I love them as people, but I don’t love them for what they see me as.  
I drag my knuckles up and down the rough bark, wincing at the pain as it draws blood. No fucking knives for me, I like to drink and smoke, drag nails along my skin until it bleeds. How easy it is to confuse pain with solution, pain with pleasure, pain with remedy.

“Fuck.” I whisper, cradling my bloodied hand and resting my head against the tree. Another sip of the bottle, and it travels to my toes immediately, warming me from the base up. I light the cigarette.

Maybe I could set myself on fire right here, and throw myself into the creek. Would I burn enough to remember it or would it even take flame?  
I tell my intrusive thoughts to go fuck themselves. All this bitterness when I could be smoking, so I take another drag. My hand is still bleeding, but it fades and it relaxes my muscles, taking me into its stupor. I lay back on the ground, feeling the dampness soak through my shirt.

Ryan, you’re alive, Ryan. Do you even care?

I mean, I really do. I do. This is the first year that I’ve felt enough something to stop feeling like a zombie, but it’s made the split in my mind even more painfully different. No longer can the two versions of me agree for long enough to let me sleep. It is the world where I please everyone else versus the world where I please myself.

This town is gonna chew me up and spit me out and once I’m gone, I’m gone. I’ll leave the cross necklace behind. But right now, the weight is too familiar to let go.  
Or maybe it’ll be more violent than that. Maybe the levee will break and I’ll just go up with it. I’ll be a fruitcake with no fight fading away like my dad will be soon.

I’m pushing at it, seeing how far I can go before making my tipping point. Something’s gonna be the last straw to break the camel’s back, and I’m really hoping it’s not me. I’m going to flood and drown a lot of people. The world has my feelings all pent up inside of me, and the cigarettes only stop the trashing waves for a little while.

My eyelids get heavy with an exhaustion that comes without peacefulness. A rest that will only free me temporarily. But leaves crunch behind me, waking me up, and I’m alert in case I need to stub the thing out and throw the bottle into the bushes.  
If someone is gonna find me here, sloppy drunk, I’ll ruin me. Do I care? I can’t see the look on Mom and Dad’s face if the rumors hit. But do you have to?

It’s some guy I’ve never seen before, and I’m thinking why are you back here, what the fuck are you doing, no one ever comes back here--  
He’s bearded and his hair is messy and his clothes hardly seem to fit, slipping off him-- just walking his dog. It’s a terrier, too, tromping along through the leaves and he’s just watching, looking at the crows and the trees. Halloween is soon, and this place fits the atmosphere. Hell, I fit the atmosphere. He walks around where he can see me, and jumps. “Holy f-” Whoever he is, his eyes scan the situation quickly, judging, understanding. “You scared me.”

I smile. “Sorry about that. Didn’t know anyone came back here.”

“Yeah, it’s about just me and the dog, here. I haven’t seen anyone back here. It’s kinda away from the main trail.” He chuckles. He’s got a pretty smile. “Anyway-- sorry to ask but, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine, just kind of, blowing off steam.”  
Raising his eyebrows at my bloodied hand, he says-- “rough day?”  
“You guessed it.”

He nods. “Anyway, we’ve got to get back, it’s getting dark, but seriously, are you sure you’re okay?”

It’s a kind gesture of him.  
“Yeah, thanks though.”  
“Okay, well bye.” He heads on his way.

It is getting dark, the sun finally floating near to the horizon, painting the sky pink. I watch him walk away and finish my cigarette, leaving the ashes, and pocketing the stub.  
  
END OF CHAPTER 1  



	2. Me versus Cigarettes (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's shorter than the last one. I hope you enjoy it! Comments are always appreciated, as well as kudos. Have a lovely day <3 xoxo

My head is fucking pounding, and I’ve been smoking too much. I can feel it on my chest, like a deadweight. I reach for the pack on my nightstand, but I smoked them through the night, cigarette burns in the duvet. Good job, Ry.

I feel like I’m dying. ¼ human, the other ¾ something incomprehensible, maybe it’s what god gave me. Speak for me, tell the world. Fuck you. The deadweight is pressing further into me, the heartbeat in my head, drumbeat.

The phone rings and the drumbeat continues. It’s only another call about planning, check the calendar again. And you’re doing well today? God, Ryan, and they still believe you after all that. They never hear it in your voice? They never doubt the words pouring out of you, like a waterfall, this water is laced with toxicity. But they will come to the well anyway. They will fill the buckets and drink anyway. Haven't you learned, Ryan? These years of drinking from the poisoned well and you still want to apologize for poisoning it.

Dad would be disappointed. Dad's gonna die, why does it matter? You can't fail the dead. By the time he’s in his grave, it wouldn’t matter. By the time he’s rotting and the flies have him, it won’t matter. It won’t matter that you’re not the son he always wanted, it won’t matter that you’re too thin and you smoke too much and you’re not in love, you’re just a faded figure on the horizon. It won’t matter that you’re gay and that you’ve been sheltering it and the world will remember you this way, white collar boy, communion boy, bless you boy.

Walk out that door into the sunshine and listen to the world moving, because it’s not stopping without you, Ryan. The world keeps moving and it’s like one of those montages where the cars speed on the road as the night changes behind them. Does it ever stop? Does the boy kiss someone and does the happy ending set in as the acoustic music plays?

“I am not the hero in this story.” I wish I was the storyteller and I could write myself as a masked hero, and in the

end I get the boy and it’s not about Jesus or the Holy Spirit anymore and it’s about me and only me, and it’s not so bad to live in my skin. So that's the story, right.  
I put my socks on because it's drafty in the mornings in the apartment. Today, I am going to do something and I'm not going to be so fuckin' sad!

"Right." I laugh and it's a bitter one at least. I'm so damn morose these sorts of times. Passion! Excitement! Love for the world and the things it brings to my feet! What a scam.

The air is more than chilly, and with winter comes Christmas and family and seasonal depression and all the bullshit magnified to the tenth, even worse, God. I would've hated to be Noah. I'd rather have drowned in the waters, the great flood. God's biggest mistake: oh yeah, humans. With their sex and their mistakes and the world domination and power hungry assholes. It's a literal joke.

And I guess there's good things too: there's animals and the summer days that feel like endless light and the fall days that feel like the beginning of something spooky-- those aren't so bad. But what bothers me the most is why humans, out of of all people, were the chosen people to inhabit the world when it could've been jungles and animals and the world's beauty for eternity.

How cool would've that be? No commercials and no factories and no McDonald's or homeless people begging for just one coin to spare. I can't save the world singlehandedly, and I can't please my damn parents, and there are so many levels of things that I can't do right. I can cook sometimes and I kissed a couple girls and they said I was pretty good but how does that affect the world, Ryan? I can answer my own question because it doesn't. No midnight McFlurry and no other Adam Sandler movie is going to fix the fact that we're gonna die unable to decide whether or not there's any point to all of this.

"Good job, Ryan. That's some dark shit."

**********************************************************************

  
I wear a black sweater and a scarf, locking the door behind me. Time to get coffee and a donut or at least something to make this day look positive. Time to ascend the unclimable mountain, from sunrise to sunset.

My hands are shaking. _Remember how cigarettes can kill you?_ Not if I kill myself first, damnit. I need another pack. Maybe those will soothe the shaking hands, but I'll smell more like ash and it'll leave the killing scent on my favourite sweater. Oh well.

I take out my phone with the intent to call someone and it's hard enough, feeling like my body is vibrating. Bad teenage girl poetry describing me, the boy who drinks and smokes like it's going out of style but doesn't really know what love is.

"Wow, that's some shit poetry."

But at least I look somewhat good. Not that my body is at it's regular proportions: I've been losing weight like a motherfucker and it's starting to show. I've always been bony as hell but I'm almost a skeleton at this point. I'll fit well in the grave, at least.

I want to tell myself to stop thinking like that. But I don't know how to recognize how much I think about dying, about my funeral suit and flowers on my casket. Who would come? Dad in his wheelchair if he doesn't die first. Mom looking like a queen, her face all serene and what a nice tear she'll shed. It won't even smudge her eyeliner. Folks from the church, and they'd have to find a new regular pastor. A lot of people would miss me, I think. I don't want them to, even: I just want them to understand that if I hung myself or threw myself into the river that I did it because of their god.

I buy a coffee and a bagel, and dial Spencer. He's been listening okay, lately-- he's a little lost with the wind. Writing another book, I think, and he's very good at it. He's all into the underground music scene and the art scene. Some Saturdays he'll take me to one of his artsy bars and introduce me to some artists, writers, musicians with all this talent. They will ask me about what I do and buy me a drink, sure. They'll ask me if I wanna go home with them and I'll say no, of course. Devotion, Ryan, devotion. Maybe one of these days I'll take that risk.

But what if somehow it gets back to someone who knows me as the Loudspeaker? God, it'd be all over. Spencer picks up and he sounds tired, probably been out or writing or asking some post-modern boy "about his art." He's so fucking gay. But god, I wish I could be like that.

"Hey Ryan." He says, yawning. "You dead yet?"  
  
"Hardly. It'd be to gaudy of a funeral for my tastes. I'd probably come back to life to insult the flowers."  
  
"Well, that's true. Otherwise, how are you doing?"  
  
"Absolutely terrible. Smoked and drank and been like shit. Thinking maybe it's time to break free and become one of your weird artist friends."  
He laughs. "You always say that. And, dude, I mean I'm here to support you if you want to do interpretive dance or learn to play the banjo, but damn. First thing you need help."  
  
"I don't need _help._ " I say.  
  
"Listen, I know you think therapists are overdone and glorified and total bullshit, but trust me. You're just burying yourself deeper and man, I'm not coming to your gaudy ass funeral if they find you in a gutter. I love you but your mom is a literal witch, and none of your church friends are even friendly. I think they can smell the gay on me. I'll throw you your own damn funeral and I'll get drunk and we'll have a toast to your amazing ass."  
"Ha-ha funny. Well, it's probably the perfume, I think."

"It's fucking _cologne._ "  
  
"Same difference. Anyway, can we like, go out for a drink or something?"  
  
"If we do you're not drinking anything but seltzer water and I'm buying you some nicotine patches. You're a fucking mess and I want you clear minded because I need to bitch."  
  
"Fine. Deal. Just god, get me out of here, even if it's to some weird art thing."  
  
"I know a few local bars with some live music."  
  
"Is it good?"  
  
"It's decent. Sometimes there's some breakthrough stuff that's more than decent, but most of the nights it's stand able without a couple drinks."  
  
"Good enough for me."  
  
"Pick you up at 8?"  
  
"If you're any later I'll lose my goddamn mind."  
  
Spencer laughs and the phone clicks when he hangs up. I feel a little better. Only a few hours of existing in a bad way.  
  
I grab a taxi and head to the church, hoping there's something they'll let me do instead of just helping set up the paperwork for missions and families we'll sponsor for Thanksgiving, which is more than boring. I end up getting stuck with the canned food driver organizers, because soon it'll be time for all the rich people to give up their old ass food for the "poor people." It's honestly disgusting, how old some of the shit they give us is. Apparently, to them, folks less fortunate to them can actually eat their expired leftovers. Assholes.

I just remind myself that a handful of hours and maybe I'll be convinced enough to fuck a stranger. Maybe I'll smoke the night away. Who gives a fuck, either way.


	3. Sisyphus & the Machine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 3!! Sorry it's a little short, hopefully four will be longer.   
>  I want to hear what you think! Talk to me, kudos, comments, smoke signals. Thank you so much for reading <3

I like the music. It’s not so bad, and it’s even better after my third cigarette. The soda water isn’t anything desirable, but it’s enough to keep Spencer happy. He’s a good friend, looking out for me when really putting that much effort towards me is entirely worthless. I’m not entirely dead but sometimes it feels like it, like explosives are ticking in my gut. I don’t know what they’re waiting for.

It would be better tomorrow than today, though. Now is my temporary moment of looking at cute guys with my best friend. I’m submerging myself in a world that I can never live in with my prestanding commitment. But with Spencer we can talk and laugh and pretend that I’m able to live this way.

“I remember from high school, right, that my pretentious english teacher is telling us about the story of Sisyphus and how he’s pushing a rock up a hill every day for eternity and just before he gets to the top, it falls back down again and he has to start again from the bottom.” Spencer says.

“Yeah, right. Remember that poor dude.”

“But our teacher-- this bitch is trying to tell us that we have to think of Sisyphus as a guy who loves doing this. He loves the challenge and for some goddamned reason, the son of a bitch loves his rock. And she’s going over this spiel about the rock and trying to make Sisyphus into an object-- a metaphor-- for our problems and how we have to love them. But I want to call her out because she’s not right, there’s a whole new point to the story that she’s missing.” He takes another shot and I wish I was drunk. My hands are shaking.

“Sisyphus isn’t supposed to love his rock, Ryan. The point of the whole story is that Sisyphus, the poor bastard, is a fucking asshole and that’s why he’s pushing the rock in the first place. If he loves the rock, then he’s not suffering in eternity and you’ve completely missed the point.”

I bite my lip. “Then what’s the whole meaning?”

He gives me a strange look. “What?”

“Then what is the meaning of the myth in the first place? What are they trying to tell us?”

Spencer thinks for a moment. “That Sisyphus is a fucking asshole and he did this to himself.”

He’s right.  
The band finishes their last song. “Thank you! We’re Infrared Anxieties, and our CD’s and merch are over in the corner. Have a great night!” And the lack of guitar makes me feel pretty empty, and I wish they’d start playing again.

“Poor Sisyphus.”

“Yeah, right.”

I take a pull on the cigarette, thinking about my rock. It’s a big rock, and it’s heavy. It keeps cutting my stomach open and I keep trying to get it up the hill.

I sympathise with Sisyphus. The bastard, his eternal life sounds like absolute shit.

The bar is full of cigarette smoke and people talking avidly about things I can’t force myself to understand. It seems to me, like a safe haven in between heaven and hell. It’s all darkness and wood and glass and the stage is shrouded by more smoke than the tables.

I’d like to play music sometime. I like the rhythms of it and how soft their eyes look when they sing, like they’ve found a place between earth and something else. Their very own place apart from earth.

The next band starts bringing their instruments on the platform. It’s hardly a stage, but they own it tonight.

Their all dressed in dark colours and they blend with the walls and the dim lighting. The bassist is tall and seems lanky, awkward in his shell but he smiles bashfully and laughs with his bandmates.

“Anyway, hey guys. We’re Boyfriend Machine and we hope you like the music.” He’s graceless and shoves the hair out of his face, but his eyes are bright. It’s kind of cute, the way he plays and how he has an energy but I can tell he’s uncomfortable. I recognize his face from something, I can't pinpoint it exactly. He's too gay for church, and too much for much else in my life.

They start to play the song and wow, this is the kind of music that’s good without a couple drinks. I take a drag on my cigarette and watch him become more comfortable with his space, coming out of his shell a little bit. And when he starts singing-- I stop breathing for what feels like forever-- and his hair is a mess but he sings with a smile and laughs through the chorus. He sings songs about kissing boys and not knowing them.

And he seems to transform from an air of shyness to being this icon, and I think to myself, this boy would be good on a big stage. He has a presence.

He'd also be good pressed up against me.

_Woah there, Ry._ I block my thoughts as they descend into the next song, and he is very obviously bisexual and not hiding it. Their songs are artsy but they don't confuse like the other songs I've heard tonight.

God bless Spencer.


End file.
